


He Used to Walk Beside Me

by Land_Under_Wave



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Continent version of couple's therapy, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Eventual Fluff, I love Jaskier so I made him Sad™, Idiots in Love, Mentions of unhealthy relationship with food, Mutual Pining, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Not super Graphic, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Sad Jaskier | Dandelion, Slow Burn, Someone give Jaskier a hug, alcohol mention, but just in case, i think, idek what this is yet, no beta we die like witchers, total lack of communication, unhealthy parent - child relationships, will update tags as I go along
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Land_Under_Wave/pseuds/Land_Under_Wave
Summary: After Geralt sends him away, Jaskier falls into a deep depression, wandering aimlessly and drinking more than is good for him. So when he sees Geralt again sooner than he had anticipated, no one is more surprised than him  when his old travelling companion invites him along on his travels again. The problem is that Geralt isn't particularly good at people, and Jaskier isn't getting better......
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 56
Kudos: 353
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading almost exclusively Geraskier fic for the last nearly five months, so I figured it was time I gave my own a shot. I'm very very new to writing fic, so any feedback is gratefully received. I have read the books, and watched the show, but probably the characters will be pretty ooc anyway because this thing is tropey as f*ck.

_‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!’_

Jaskier has always considered himself to be a people person.

A good judge of character.

Someone with a solid understanding of exactly where he stands with the people around him.

_‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!’_

He’s had to be. His parents never thought much of him. His siblings even less so. He didn’t really have friends when he was at university; he was too noble for the ‘ordinary’ folk of Oxenfurt, and not noble enough for the real posh nobs.

_‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!’_

He can’t stop thinking about it. How could he have got it so wrong? How could he have mistaken over two decades of genuine anger and resentment for friendly banter?

His world doesn’t feel like it’s caving in around him, anymore. He supposes this is a good thing; it’s been over three weeks, after all. The problem is that once your world has finished caving in, it’s…well. Caved in. He’s been picking amongst the wreckage, but there’s not much worth salvaging. So instead, he’s been wandering. Not really sure where he’s going, though.

He knows that he could go back to Oxenfurt; he has enough contacts left that he could probably get a lecturing post. The problem is that going back to Oxenfurt feels like giving up. Jaskier isn’t a boy anymore, he knows that. He knows that as a middle-aged man, he should relish the chance for a steady life. Unfortunately, his wandering heart hasn’t quite got the memo about that part. It yearns for open road and exhaustion and seedy taverns with lumpy straw mattresses. Jaskier’s life has never been what you would call steady, anyway; he isn’t actually sure if he knows how to do steady. He still wants the uncertainty of not knowing where he’ll be sleeping tonight. He still wants, desperately, the life he had -sorry, the life he _thought_ he had – with Geralt.

It makes him feel even more pathetic. He feels too young to be washed up, and too old to be starting again. So, he sits, and drinks. And when he can’t afford to drink, he plays some music so he can make money for more drink. The part of him that is not completely sozzled knows that this is not helpful behaviour; if there ever was a signifier of ‘old has-been-ness’, drinking copious amounts of alcohol is surely it. But Jaskier has never felt like this before; never felt this kind of soul-sucking apathy, this misery. He feels like an actor in a performance he didn’t even know he was part of, left blinking in the light after the wobbly set has fallen down.

 _How did I not realise?_ He thinksmiserably. It is this thought, more than any other, that haunts him. Because it means that not only have the last 23 years of his life been a lie, but possibly the previous 20 before that too. His entire sense of himself has been upset. Has everyone been laughing at him, this whole time? He imagines them, when he’s really drunk, the ones who peopled his youth. _We see through you, Jaskier,_ they jeer from the shadows. _You know nothing about anything, Jaskier._

He’s not drunk at the moment, which is a shame, because all the bothersome, _practical_ thoughts are making their long overdue appearance. Thoughts like _you need to sleep_ and _you don’t know where you are or where you’re going._ And the less practical thoughts are there too, the ones about what Geralt is doing now. He worries about him and feels bad for leaving him alone. But then he asked, didn’t he? He specifically requested Jaskier’s absence. And Jaskier has never been able to refuse that man anything, not one single thing, not ever. And there’s the rub. Jaskier has never denied Geralt a thing. And Jaskier, in return, has only ever asked for one thing. He is aware that Geralt has often kept him alive, and rescued him from uncomfortable situations, but Jaskier has never _asked_ for that. He assumed it was a give-and-take thing. Geralt saves Jaskier’s life, Jaskier makes coin for room. Geralt hunts for food, Jaskier stitches wounds closed. The only thing he ever really wanted from him was his love. To learn retrospectively that he could not have been further from getting it is…painful. Yes. That’s the only word he can think of that describes it.

Jaskier sits down heavily by the side of the road, wondering what would happen if he just didn’t get up again. His sobriety is becoming a real problem. Well, no, ok, that’s not strictly true. His _reality_ is becoming a problem; the sobriety just means he has to experience it. He hopes that he comes across a tavern or something soon. His coin purse is upsettingly light, but he can probably make himself perform later to make some more. All old songs, of course. He doesn’t want to think about why he hasn’t written any new ones, the same way he doesn’t want to think about the dark fog that clouded his mind for the first few days after he left Geralt, and hasn’t really receded since. If he doesn’t think about it, it isn’t there. If he doesn’t think about it, he can pretend that it isn’t happening, that this great yawning chasm where his heart should be is more of a pothole. He can forget that he has been here before. Well, not _here,_ here. He’s never had a broken heart like this before. But the other stuff is devastatingly familiar. Geralt’s…well, Geralt’s everything largely kept it at bay, though. His rare smiles (fucking _beautiful_ smile, the bastard), his warm, reassuring presence at Jaskier’s side – they felt so _good,_ and the black fog runs from good feelings like small dogs from waves at the beach. There aren’t any good feelings to protect him now. Anyway, the point is, if he’s going to find enough alcohol to get drunk, he needs a tavern, and if he wants to find a tavern, he’s got to get up. He hauls himself back to his aching feet, and trudges on.

The sun is just dipping below the horizon when he makes it the next town. Its inn is cheap and cheerful, so even on his meagre funds he is confident he will be able to get a room and a hot meal. His confidence evaporates when his eyes have grown accustomed to the gloom of the taproom, and he spots a familiar thatch of shoulder-length white hair. He very nearly walks right out again and keeps going, until those golden eyes fix on him from across the room. Then he suddenly finds he can’t move at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt makes things right with Jaskier. Or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Geralt is a bit more verbose than Netflix!Geralt. Book!Geralt is quite talkative, although he usually only talks to be sarcastic, or yell at someone, so I've kind of gone with that. I haven't decided if I'm going to alternate between POVs yet, but I thought this chapter was important to have from Geralt's point of view. I find Jaskier's POV easier to write, so probably there will be more of that.

Geralt sees him across the room. Sees him freeze. Sees him stare. It stirs a feeling in his chest that he can’t quite identify; some weird hollow ache that almost takes his breath away. Jaskier picks his way cautiously between patrons. As he gets closer, Geralt sees that he doesn’t look…well. He’s lost weight, he’s sure of it; he didn’t even know humans _could_ lose so much weight so quickly. He’s pale, an almost sickly green colour, and the darkness under his eyes is more bruise-like than shadowy. The hope that he has been carefully cultivating within himself starts to wither slightly. He had planned to talk to Jaskier first, before seeking out Yennefer, had thought that things were more easily mended there. Now, though, it looks like it might be more difficult than anticipated. He’s done more damage than he thought.

The bard is wearing the same expression you see on nervous horses when you walk past their fields, a kind of terrified madness. He longs to reach out to him, but even removing his hand from the bar makes the poor man flinch. That hurts. Jaskier has never been afraid of him. Not when he’s half feral on toxic potions, not when he’s tired and hungry and growling like a wild dog, not even when he nearly impaled the bard on his sword, one night not long after they met and he was’t used to having people around him in the night. He’s afraid of him now, though. Oh, so very afraid. Witcher’s can’t really smell feelings, although people think they can, but Geralt can almost smell the insidious fear rolling off his old friend in waves. He imagines it would smell sour. Geralt considers getting up and going to him, but thinks better of it. He lets Jaskier come to him, slowly; he sways to a stop about a foot from him. He looks even worse up close.

“Hello,” Geralt says gently. Well, he tries to say it gently. Unfortunately, he hasn’t actually spoken to anyone since that day on the mountain, so his voice is all rough and gravelly. Sounds more like a growl, really. Fuck. As expected, Jaskier flinches again.

“Hello,” he whispers back. Geralt hears him, though, even through the din of the taproom. He thinks he would hear Jaskier whispering to him from the other side of the world. Why does he think that? his Witcher instincts wonder. He’s always been trained to think about his thoughts, to interrogate them, to work out their source. But he’s not aware of ever thinking that one before, at least not consciously. Never mind, no time to think about it now.

“Can we talk?” is his next bright idea for a conversation starter. He’s never actually had to start a conversation with Jaskier before, and he sees immediately that this was possibly not the best way to start. The bard stares at him.

“Talk?” he croaks, a little hysterically. He’s swaying so much now that Geralt is genuinely worried that he might keel over. Once again, he aches to reach out to him, but he doesn’t think this would be welcome. “We don’t need to talk, Geralt,” he continues. “I’m sorry to bump into you here, but we don’t-hm-you don’t need to talk to me. It’s fine. I’m going to get a drink or six, and I’m going to sit on the other side of the bar and if I’m lucky I’ll find someone to take to bed. Just-just pretend I’m not here, or something, it’s fine. I’ll be off your hands in a jiff.” He really does sound hysterical, now. His voice is getting louder, and higher-pitched, the further along the sentence he gets, and people are starting to stare. He’s quivering all over like a baby deer, and Geralt sees pain written into the lines of his face. He’s trying so hard to sound like himself and it’s that, more than anything, that makes his last words hit Geralt like a kick to the chest. _That’s what you told him you wanted, isn’t it?_ Says the nasty voice that has been living in his brain the last few weeks. _You told him it would be a blessing._

The pain of this is shocking. Why is it shocking? He feels that the answer to all of these questions is glaringly obvious, but he doesn’t have time to think about it any further because Jaskier’s knees are crumpling beneath him and he’s making a weak kittenish sound. Geralt catches him before he hits the ground, his own calls for help drowned out by the blood roaring in his ears. _What has he done?_

_*_

Jaskier remains unconscious for an excruciating four hours. Geralt paces impatiently beside his bed, wondering what to do. The healer who was summoned to see him reckoned he hadn’t really eaten for several days, at least, and was severely dehydrated. Plenty of food, then, and a full waterskin. He can do that. These practical concerns distract him from the nasty voice, which considerately reminds him at regular intervals that this is all his fault. He’s hurt Jaskier more deeply than he had imagined if he wasn’t looking after himself the way he usually does. Regular food and sleep have always been close to the top of Jaskier’s list of priorities. The bard’s extended nap does, however, give Geralt time to think about what he wants to say to him once he wakes up. He formulated a few ideas whilst on the hunt for his friend, but now that he has seen him, they all seem woefully inadequate. They were designed with anger and skin-deep hurt in mind, not…whatever this is. He planned to apologise, on his knees if such theatrics were required, and then slap his friend on the back and tell him to get a move on, they were going on an adventure. Easy. Comfortable. Familiar. 

Geralt curses himself. He’s never been able to get words to do what he wants them to; they’ve never had much effect on people when he’s actually wanted them to. But it’s clear that what he’s done to Jaskier is, though inadvertent, not as easily remedied as he had expected. He finds himself wondering why. Finds himself thinking back over the old conversations. Finds himself realising that he doesn’t actually know much about the bard. He was always telling anyone who would listen that Jaskier was a loudmouth who couldn’t keep a secret, but his past is more of a secret even than Geralt’s. His witcher senses tell him that this is not an accident.

The problem is that he doesn’t know what to do about it. He doesn’t even know what _he_ feels, never mind trying to decipher someone else’s feelings. What he knows for sure, though, is that he needs to make Jaskier understand that what happened in King Niedemar’s Mountains three weeks ago was _not_ his fault, and neither is any of the other shit he blamed him for. He can do that, can’t he?

*

It seems that he actually can’t. When the bard wakes up, Geralt almost collapses with relief. He crouches carefully next to the bed, longing to reach out and pet his hair (he’s realised in the last few hours that this is not a new desire, but there’s time for that sort of thinking later). Just stick to the script. Just say sorry.

“Jaskier, I-I’ve got some things I need to say,” he begins gruffly. Jaskier looks at him dully. A part of Geralt has very confusing feelings about that look that he doesn’t want to think about. “I wanted..hm. I wanted to say that I’m sorry for what I said….you know….the other week. I-it was wrong of me. To do that. It wasn’t your fault that I was angry. And all the other stuff- also not your fault. Damn stupid thing to say. Sorry.” He cringes inwardly. Is that really the best he can do? Jaskier blinks at him and sits up carefully.

“That’s…ok,” he says slowly. “It-I mean. You were hurt. People say stuff when they’re hurt. It’s fine.” That phrase again. Geralt has rarely seen the bard less fine, or less eloquent. Jaskier isn’t looking at him, is staring at a spot about a foot above his head with dull eyes. Everything about him seems dull, actually. Where there used to be a bright peacock of a man, there’s now a little…starling, or something. Geralt’s never been much good at metaphors.

“Right, well. Um. Thanks for the…y’know, the bed, and stuff. I’ll just go and get a beer or something, and then get going. See you round, Geralt.” He makes to get out of bed.

“No!” Geralt cries, actually reaching out and pushing Jaskier back on the bed by his shoulder. Jaskier cringes away from him, all the colour his restorative nap brought back into his cheeks leaking away. Geralt groans inwardly. For fuck’s sake, has he always been this inept? He tries again.

“No, I mean. Hm. If you think you need more rest, you should-you should stay. And then maybe-maybe tomorrow, we ‘ll…go somewhere. Together.” Jaskier’s face does a really complicated thing where it flickers through about 25 different emotions in the space of about three seconds.

“I’m sorry – we?” he asks. Geralt starts to panic. This was an outcome he had not planned for. He wants – no, he _needs_ Jaskier to come with him, because he needs to show him that he is better, now. The last few weeks without him have been intolerable, and the idea of being separated from him forever makes him want to weep. He’s not sure if he actually can weep, but he wants to.

“Yeah, y’know, I just thought….it was a mistake, what happened last time we spoke and…I want it to go back to how it was. Like old times.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says weakly, making to stand up again. “You don’t-we can’t-you don’t-”

“ _Please,_ ” Geralt cuts in desperately. He sees immediately that it’s the right thing to say. Show Jaskier that he _wants_ this, wants him back. He’s not just saying it because he thinks he needs to. Jaskier’s shoulders go slack, and his face becomes expressionless again. Much, much later, Geralt will look back on this moment and realise that this is where it all started going wrong, even before it had ever really gone right again. He’ll look back on this moment and wish with everything in him that he hadn’t said _please._ But right now, with Jaskier giving into him, with Jaskier looking up at him saying “I-alright then. Tomorrow. Together,” all he feels is breath-taking, aching joy. _We’ll go to the coast,_ he thinks giddily. _Me and him and the sea, like he said._ He didn’t realise how desperately he wanted it until the possibility was taken from him. _Besides,_ the voice adds as he runs back down to the bar to fetch some food for the invalid, _the sea air will do him good._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt hit the road. Jaskier starts to have second thoughts. And feelings. Lots, and lots of feelings....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight content warning for mentions of depressive thoughts. Jaskier also has a sort of panic attack. Thanks for all of the comments and kudos, It makes me so happy to know so many people are enjoying this!

_What am I doing?_ Jaskier thinks to himself as he trudges along next to Geralt. _This is a terrible idea._ _I mean, not turning around and leaving the minute I saw him was a terrible idea, but this really takes the cake._ Yesterday had been painful. It shouldn’t have been. Here was everything he had been telling himself for three weeks he desperately wanted – an apology from Geralt, kindness, at least an attempt at communicating, an invitation to travel together again – offered to him on a silver platter without his even having to do anything. So why does he still feel so shitty? Is it because he knows Geralt is just trying to soothe his conscience? Jaskier tried to tell him, yesterday, tried to say that he didn’t need to try and put things back together. That Jaskier knows he’s not worth the trouble. That he doesn’t want to be a charity case. He was really going to do it, too, he really was going to keep talking until Geralt _listened_ to him, until he admitted that he just didn’t want to feel guilty anymore. He was really going to summon up the effort of will to send him away, with Jaskier’s blessing if he wanted it. The idea of being apart from him was _agony,_ but the idea of being kept around just because Geralt doesn’t know how to get rid of him – again – was even worse. And then the bastard said _please._ He said please and looked at him like…like…like maybe he might be important. Like he really _wanted_ it. And Jaskier crumbled like a sandcastle at high tide. Because that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? For Geralt to _want him._ And for a moment, just a moment, Jaskier allowed himself to imagine that he did, and he was lost. He could never deny Geralt anything.

Which is why he is now on the road again, lute strapped across his back, eating Roach’s dust. It’s like the last three weeks never happened. Jaskier tries to tell himself this a good thing, but the fact is it’s like your first Yule after you find out that it’s really your parents leaving the gifts in the sack at the end of the bed. It’s….fine, but the magic is gone. Jaskier knows he’s not wanted, not really, so it’s a hollow victory. Nothing is different. Except that, somehow, everything is different. Geralt is not riding. He is walking next to Jaskier letting Roach meander just ahead of them. He touches him, quite a lot, actually, to check for fever and rashes. They’ve stopped three times already today, and Geralt made him eat, and drink something. He even tries to start a conversation with him, asking about which part of the coast he wants to go to. Jaskier wants to be sick, when he says that. Because he wants it, _sweet Melitele_ he wants it. It’s been his dearest fantasy for years, him and Geralt and Roach by the sea, talking and laughing and being peaceful together. And now it’s coming true, except that it isn’t, because he and Geralt are-they’re not – their relationship isn’t different, now. Ok, it is different, completely different, but not the way Jaskier wants it to be. They’re not _together._ And he can’t enjoy it, mustn’t allow himself to enjoy it, because that will make it worse, will make Geralt leaving him again even harder to bear. Because Geralt will leave him, he’s under no illusions about that. They’ll go to the coast - Geralt, honourable bastard that he is, will give Jaskier what he thinks he wants, and then let him down gently. He’s doing what he meant to do all along, just with a bit of added damage control, to apologise for the way he did it last time. The fact that he’s living on borrowed time should make him more eager than ever to savour what’s left of it, but the truth is that Jaskier is exhausted.

This morning, they stopped for a full hour to have some food, after barely walking for thee, and Jaskier very nearly told Geralt to just leave and go on without him. The idea of days filled with just walking makes him want to weep. _So much for not being ready to_ _settle down yet,_ he thinks to himself. Maybe he is too old to keep living like this. He must make a noise at the thought, because Geralt is there immediately, _fussing._ Geralt doesn’t fuss. He has never fussed.

“Are you in pain?” he asks, and he actually sounds _anxious_ , the bastard _._ Sounds like he cares what the answer is. Jaskier hates him and adores him in equal measure, for that. He’s never tolerated Jaskier’s whining before, though, so he’s definitely not going to say anything. Doesn’t want to give Geralt any reason to ditch him early. The trip to the coast might be a hollow consolation prize, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _want_ it. He shrugs.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Geralt looks frustrated. Jaskier feels a bit guilty; he knows he’s not making it easy for Geralt to assuage his conscience. But Jaskier’s so _tired_ of trying to make things easy for people. He’s got an already broken heart to protect and bolster, and sometimes that means not giving people what they want all the time. _As if you’re not going to give in the next time he says ‘please’ and bats his eyelashes at you,_ he thinks wryly. It hurts to think, but it’s true and he hates himself for it. He’s traded in a life of relative ease in Oxenfurt for the barest scraps of disinterested not-friendship from a man who is in love with someone else. He’s as pathetic as his father told him he was.

They trudge on in silence. Every now and again, Geralt turns to him like he wants to say something, and then turns away again. Jaskier manages to hold out against the impulse to have pity and talk to him for nearly an hour.

“So…um. Tell me about the towns we’re going to go through. Any work for a travelling bard, d’you reckon?” He doesn’t want to play. He has never, in his life, felt _less_ like playing. But Geralt won’t tolerate Jaskier not paying his way, so play he shall. Geralt beams, actually _beams_ at him. Jaskier’s knees turn to jelly.

“Probably,” is his reply. Jaskier finds himself chuckling; apparently Geralt’s conscience-soothing activity does not extend to verbosity. “I mean…hm. There’s a tavern we should get to before dark that might want music. Doesn’t matter though. I have coin. You don’t have to play if you’re tired.” Jaskier blinks.

“Well now, I didn’t say that. Little thing like being tired is no obstacle for a master bard!” he tries to inject some enthusiasm into his voice, tries to waggle his eyebrows and skip like he usually would. Geralt doesn’t look convinced.

“I also need to stop in to see a-a mage, tonight. Or tomorrow. Need some potion ingredients.” Jaskier stiffens. The mention of a mage brings up a lot of complicated feelings for him. On the one hand, he feels like a terrible friend. Geralt’s heart was horribly broken, the last time he saw him, and he hasn’t really asked about how he’s doing, although he’s had lots of opportunities to. Like last night, while they were lying in the dark, waiting for sleep. Or this morning, while they had breakfast. Or the many many hours they’ve been walking together in silence. On the other hand, that’s a conversation he just isn’t sure he can cope with. If he’s going to be happy with his consolation prize, he wants to forget all about Yennefer. He wants to forget that someone already _has_ what he himself so desperately wants; has it and doesn’t want it. Jaskier may have been wrong about a lot of things, but he is absolutely certain that what Geralt feels for Yennefer is completely, 100% real. He doesn’t think about all the reasons why she might have believed otherwise, all the reasons she might have had for walking away. It is easier not to think about her at all, and when he must think of her, to think of her with hatred. It hurts less that way. He realises he’s been quiet for a long time.

“That’s-yeah, not a good idea to run out of ingredients on the road.” It’s a lame response, and he knows it, but he can’t think of anything more interesting to say. They continue in silence. If Geralt is disappointed that he doesn’t mention Yennefer, he doesn’t show it.

*

The uneasy peace becomes even more uneasy, and decidedly less peaceful, when they reach the tavern. Geralt makes it very clear that he doesn’t want Jaskier performing.

“Yesterday you were almost comatose from not eating, Jaskier,” he says firmly. "I’ve got enough coin for room and board.” This is what he says, but Jaskier is sure that what he means is _I hate your music, and I always have. Let this blessed silence continue._

“I-You-Not enough for two rooms!” Jaskier says. He means to sound indignant, but he just sounds tired. Geralt looks at him, confused.

“Two rooms? We’ve shared a room before,” he says. Jaskier curses himself. He’s trying not to give Geralt any reason to leave him before they reach the coast, and here he is testing the limits of his generosity with extravagance!

“You’re right,” he allows, stiffly. He doesn’t want to share a room with Geralt. Well, he does, he never wants to let Geralt out of his sight ever again, but he also is tired of trying to pretend to be himself when he feels like he’s growing out of his skin. The idea of having to keep putting in maximum effort for minimum effect for much longer makes him want to cry.

“Besides”, Geralt continues, counting out pieces of silver for the innkeeper, “if we share a room there’s enough money for you to have a nice hot bath. Healer said you should be warm.” Jaskier very nearly does cry, then. It’s not fair! Being given the gift of Geralt’s care when he doesn’t mean it is _agony._ Geralt is looking at him like the idea of doing something nice for him makes him happy, says it like it’s a surprise he’s been keeping in all day, desperate to spill. The fact that the witcher knows him well enough to know exactly what will make Jaskier forgive him, and is exploiting it for that very reason, just so he can walk away later is unbearable. The fact that Jaskier knows this and has forgiven him anyway, even more so. Doesn’t stop him from caving, though. He does want a bath. It’s the autumn end of summer, and with all the weight he’s lost, he’s less well-insulated than he usually is.

“That would be nice,” he says in a small voice. Geralt beams at him again, and the shattered pieces of Jaskier’s broken heart splinter just a little bit more.

The room is exactly like hundreds of others that Jaskier has stayed in with Geralt over the years, and he finds himself falling into the familiar habit of helping Geralt off with his armour. Jaskier has never been sure why he wears it when he’s not actually fighting anything. He suspects it’s because Geralt doesn’t like shopping for clothes. When’s done, Geralt is giving him a very soft look, that does things to Jaskier’s insides.

“Thank you,” he says murmurs. Jaskier’s chest burns, and he looks away quickly.

“Right,” he says briskly. “I’ll fetch some water then, shall I? You can get in first, while it’s really hot, and then I’ll go in after.” This is how they’ve always done it. Geralt likes his bath hot enough to melt most normal people’s skin. Geralt looks at him strangely.

“Don’t be silly. You sit. I’ll get the water. I won’t make it too hot. You have a nice soak.” Jaskier knows he is uncomfortable because he’s talking in lots of very short sentences.

“Are you. Not having one?”

“Nah. ‘M clean. Could wash your hair. If you want.” Jaskier’s blood roars in his ears. The mere idea of having Geralt magnificent hands in his _fucking hair_ makes him go weak at the knees. He has a thing for Geralt’s hands, and even more of a thing for people running their hands through his hair. He blushes hotly.

“Ok,” he squeaks, cursing himself even as he does it. Why is he so weak? Geralt doesn’t want to do this! He’s only offering because….because…because he’s sweet, under all that gruffness, and he doesn’t want Jaskier to be sad anymore. Probably to give him something to do, too. Geralt smiles and strides out the door to fetch the water.

Once he’s gone, another thought occurs to him, that makes him go cold . Jaskier hasn’t taken his clothes off since before he last saw Geralt. He knows he’s lost a lot of weight, what with all the drinking beer instead of eating, and he realises that he doesn’t know what he’s going to find under his clothes. His physique has never compared that favourably to Geralt’s, but at least he _had_ a physique. He can’t bear the idea of Geralt looking at him and seeing a weak, helpless man, middle-aged and pathetic. He might realise that Jaskier is more trouble than he’s worth, and leave tomorrow before Jaskier wakes up. Suddenly he really, really doesn’t want a bath. He really _does_ want a beer. Several, in fact. And to get into bed. His limbs ache, and there’s a dull throbbing building behind his left eye. Has that been there all day, or is that new? He stands, trembling, in the middle of the room. In ten minutes, Geralt is going to come back, and then he’ll ask Jaskier what’s wrong, and Jaskier will say nothing, and Geralt won’t believe him and then he’ll make Jaskier get in the bath and it’s just all wrong and why is he so weak if he hadn’t said yes to coming travelling with the witcher again none of this would be happening and he could just lie down in a ditch and stay there where he belongs and- he almost misses Geralt coming back into the room, and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. Jaskier jumps about a foot in the air, and trembles harder.

“It’s only me,” Geralt says gently, putting the bucket he was carrying down when he sees that Jaskier is becoming more agitated, instead of calmer. He can’t do this. He thought he could just travel with Geralt for a bit and then give him up but he needs to go, he needs to leave now, he needs to get out before he gets broken again, because he can’t take another three weeks like the three weeks he’s just had, he can’t, he’s not strong enough he’s not brave enough, he-

“Hey, hey, it’s ok,” Geralt says gently, catching Jaskier as he falls against him. He sounds like he’s coming from very far away. “Jaskier, can you hear me?” Jaskier nods dumbly, still quivering. Geralt looking after him should make him happy, but he just feels pathetic. And exhausted. Has he mentioned that he feels exhausted? He’s so weak, weak and useless. Geralt leads him over to the bed and sits him down. “Healer said this might happen,” he mutters, almost to himself. “She called it…what did she call it, aftershock, or something. Got to keep him warm. Yeah. Can’t leave him alone though. Hm. Ah!” this last triumphantly, looking at the fireplace. “Blanket and fire, keep him warm. Keep him warm.” He repeats this to himself while he builds up the fire. Jaskier feels dizzy. It’s as if his brain was travelling at hundreds of miles an hour and then suddenly hit a wall. He can barely comprehend what Geralt is saying. The witcher heaps blankets on him, and then sits next to him and puts his arms around him. Ordinarily, this would make Jaskier’s heart pound, and his cheeks heat up, and a certain part of his anatomy lift its proverbial head in interest. As it is, he can barely comprehend it. He can feel Geralt’s chest vibrating with speech, but all he can hear is his sluggish heartbeat. It sounds like the drums of doom. Geralt will never take him to the coast now. He won’t be able to put up with him for that long.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt helps Jaskier through the aftermath of his panic attack, and does some soul-searching. Jaskier starts to be a bit more articulate about what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings: I don't think there are any, for this chapter, but if any of you spot anything you think should be in the tags, please let me know!  
> Looks like this is going to be an alternating POV fic. Jaskier is very, very sad, so I wanted to include Geralt's point of view to show that things are going to get better between them.

Geralt isn’t sure Jaskier can hear him. He’s staring blankly at the wall while Geralt rocks him gently in his arms, occasionally mumbling something under his breath. Geralt is not sure if he’s doing the right thing here; Jaskier is warm but he still hasn’t come back from wherever it is he’s gone. Geralt tries to stay calm. He’s not sure why he’s so afraid, he’s been in much more dangerous situations than this.

That’s a lie. He does know why he’s so afraid, but it is hard to think about, because he thinks he might be too late. It came to him, about an hour ago. Jaskier was helping him off with his armour, like he has every evening they’ve been together for over 20 years. Geralt isn’t sure he even thought about it. He barely spoke to Geralt on the road today, resisted every attempt at conversation until they reached the inn. But he helped Geralt off with his armour because that’s what he does, and he just…knew how to do it. He knows which buckles are a bit stiff, and which ones need to be undone a little at a time until the whole piece pulls off together. He knows to move Geralt’s hair out of the way so it doesn’t get caught in the clasps. And Geralt was looking at him and realising that no one has ever _known_ him like this; no one has ever made the effort before. And suddenly, he was standing there looking at his friend and thinking _I love him._ And even though he can’t remember ever thinking it before, it didn’t feel _new_. It felt more like putting a name to something that he had felt for a long time, acknowledging the space his friend occupies in his heart. It settled over him like sunshine, making his insides go soft. And for a moment, one golden moment, Jaskier looked at him and he looked at Jaskier and his heart was so full he thought it would burst. And then it was gone, and Jaskier looked away, and Geralt went to get water and now….now they’re here.

And Geralt is holding him, and talking to him, because he doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t know what else he is _allowed_ to do. He thinks he may have lost the right even to do this, but Jaskier _needs_ him. Geralt wants to give him what he needs, anything he needs, it’s just that right now he isn’t sure what that actually _is._ He might decide, tomorrow, that Geralt’s presence is just too painful to bear. He’s sure that’s what distressed him so much in the first place – Geralt hurt him, and now being near him is painful. And Geralt is determined that, if he asks, he will let him go. He must find it within him to do that for Jaskier, because he _loves_ him and the idea of keeping him when he doesn’t want to be kept is intolerable. He thought, yesterday, that his friend just needed time. They would travel together, and he would see how sorry Geralt is, and how desperately he wants to make amends. Today he’s started to wonder if the only way he can make amends is by letting Jaskier go. Geralt doesn’t know how to make it better, all this pain he’s caused. He realises he’s saying a lot of this out loud, but Jaskier is showing no indication that he can hear him, and it feels good to say.

“I won’t make you stay,” he whispers into Jaskier’s hair (his senses helpfully supply that Jaskier smells _heavenly_ and that his hair is soft and greying slightly). “I’ll leave tomorrow if that’s what you want. You just have to say. You just have to _say._ ” He has to stop thinking about it, then. Thinking about leaving when he has Jaskier in his arms, even if he’s unwell, is painful. So, he thinks about some other things. He thinks about Yennefer, mostly. He thought about her a lot, the last few weeks. He wants to find her and apologise. She won’t accept it, he’s sure of that, and certainly won’t want to see him again after that, but somehow this idea is less painful than it was. He still loves her, but it’s a different kind of love, he thinks. He is not sure he can explain, even to himself, how she can be simultaneously essential to him, and completely unimportant. He feels about her the same way he feels about Eskel, and Lambert, and Vesemir, he supposes. She’s family, but she’s not-he doesn’t need her with him, all the time. They dance around one another and understand one another in ways that other people can’t, but it doesn’t work for them to be always together. The six months he spent living with her in Vengerberg, about ten years ago showed him that. He still wants to find her, but this time he wants to set her free.

Jaskier stirs beside him, wriggling uncomfortably. Geralt realises he still has his face buried in the bard’s hair and loosens his grip.

“Geralt?” he murmurs, looking up at him blearily. Geralt brushes the hair off his forehead (he can’t help it, it’s so _soft_ ) and smiles.

“Hello. How do you feel?” Jaskier blinks up at him. His eyes are beautiful.

“I’m fine. Sorry-about all the…y’know. Drama.” Geralt sighs.

“Please don’t…hm. You don’t have to be sorry. You’ve been ill. Things have been. Not good. When we get to Cidaris, you can have a proper rest.” Jaskier blinks again. Geralt can’t look at him. He thinks, if he looks at him, he might kiss him. A dam has burst in his chest, and decades worth of love have poured out, and he’s not sure he would be able to resist. But Jaskier is still leaning against him, so he doesn’t go anywhere. He doesn’t want Jaskier to think he doesn’t want him. That’s what caused this whole mess in the first place.

“You still want a bath?” Geralt asks. Jaskier shakes his head.

“Nah. I think I’ll just…um. Get some sleep. Sorry. You went and got the water and everything and I just spoiled it.” He looks like he’s going to cry. Geralt hugs him. That’s new. They’ve never actually hugged before, he doesn’t think. Jaskier makes a strangled noise. Geralt curses himself, and lets go.

“It’s ok, you didn’t spoil anything. You should sleep if you think you need to.” Jaskier gets carefully off the bed and wobbles to the bucket of water Geralt brought up to have a drink. Geralt watches him.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Oh sure, fine, fine. Just tired.” That word ‘fine’ again. It hurts Geralt terribly to know that Jaskier doesn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth, but he doesn’t push it. He makes up the bed, and after a short squabble, gets Jaskier to agree to sleep in it. Geralt longs to sleep in it with him, breathing him in, like old times. But now that he knows he loves Jaskier, sleeping in the bed with him feels like taking advantage. He’s hurt his friend enough.

Geralt piles some shirts under his head and lies down. He doesn’t need to sleep, really, he slept last night. Better than usual, warmed by Jaskier’s renewed presence in the room with him. _He feels like home_ , Geralt realises. How long has he thought that? How long has he loved this sweet, silly, shallow, generous bard, and just not noticed? How much time has he wasted trying to push him away, afraid to hurt him – only to succeed in hurting him, anyway? He thinks Jaskier is asleep, until he whispers:

“Geralt?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t want you to leave me.” Geralt feels a great swell of feeling he can’t identify ballooning inside him. Jaskier did hear him, earlier, then.

“Ok,” he whispers back, hoarsely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier isn't getting better. Geralt doesn't know what to do about it, until he realises he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt inspired so I'm uploading this today instead of tomorrow. Thank you for all your lovely comments!  
> More Geralt POV.  
> Content Warnings for this chapter: mentions of a slightly unhealthy relationship with food, sleep and alcohol. Another panic attack, and mentions of unhealthy parent-child relationships. Also tw for emetophobia - very brief mention, not that graphic, but just in case!

Geralt supposes things are a bit better, after that. At the very least they don’t get any worse. For the next three weeks, they make steady progress on the road to Cidaris. Sometimes they camp under the stars, but mostly they stay in inns and taverns. Geralt has taken the healer’s words to heart; Jaskier must be kept warm at all costs. Sometimes Jaskier plays, and this earns them coin, or free drinks, or a free room, depending on the generosity of the barkeep and their patrons. The bard gets a bit more talkative on the road, too, although he still doesn’t write music while they walk.

They don’t talk about that first night at the tavern. Geralt keeps hoping that Jaskier will bring it up. Now that he has admitted to himself that his feelings are…more than friendly, all the words that remain unsaid between them are a constant ache in his chest. But Jaskier doesn’t, so Geralt doesn’t either. He is determined to earn the bard’s trust again, whatever the cost to himself. Now that he’s looking at Jaskier though, really looking – and he has to admit to looking a great deal, greedy for the sight of him – he can see that things are still not right. The bruise-like shadows under his eyes haven’t gone away, for a start. He sleeps badly, if at all, and brushes Geralt off when he mentions it.

“Just a twig in my back, dear friend,” he says in what he probably means to be a nonchalant tone when they camp. Or “ground’s a bit hard, couldn’t get comfy.” Or, if they’re in an inn, the bed might be too soft, or the patrons too noisy. Geralt mostly doesn’t need to sleep, and even in the depths of his meditative state, he can hear Jaskier tossing and turning. One morning, he actually begs Geralt to leave him behind, he’s so exhausted, he can’t bear it, he can’t walk today. Geralt can see that he’s not joking. He also eats very little, and drinks far too much. Geralt tried everything he could think of to get him to eat something, before realising that getting angry was the only way to achieve it. The hunted look that didn’t leave his friend’s face for hours when he did that was absolutely not worth the satisfaction of seeing him finally eat something. That’s the worst part – the haunted look Jaskier wears when he thinks Geralt’s not looking. The slump of his shoulders, the drag of his feet. He’s putting on a show, and he thinks that Geralt doesn’t notice. But he doesn’t talk about it, and Geralt doesn’t either.

So he watches, and worries, and lives for each fleeting smile, each brush of a shoulder or hand, each golden laugh that fills his chest with heat. He’s killed a few monsters on their journey, too. He is a witcher, after all. The last one was a Nekker, about a week ago. The fight itself was uneventful, but the bath afterwards was…memorable. He asked Jaskier for help washing his hair before he could stop himself and that was…that was…well. Heavenly, might the right word. Paradise. The bard’s touch has always been gentle, and now that Geralt was no longer lying to himself, he could allow himself to enjoy it properly. It was almost like old times, actually; Jaskier was chattier than he had been, and his voice so close to Geralt’s ear made him shudder with barely suppressed pleasure. Jaskier had also eaten a big meal, and slept for several hours afterwards. He had even allowed Geralt to sleep in the bed with him to conserve body heat. Geralt had itched to curl around him like a cat but had contented himself with petting his hair while he slept. He had felt guilty about it afterwards, but the bard was _beautiful_ in the dark, his face free of the pain and exhaustion that haunted it in daylight.

It’s almost peaceful, almost perfect, and Geralt allows himself to believe that things might be alright between them, with time.

*

This belief is shaken barely two days after it is formed. It happens like this:

They’re camped outside. Geralt had hoped to reach a tavern by the time night fell, but the combination of eating little and sleeping badly have made Jaskier even slower than usual, so Geralt called camp early. They’re eating a dinner of flat, crispy bread, roasted rabbit and some sort of mushroomy plant that tastes a bit like potato. Geralt is telling Jaskier about a job he took about three years ago, a banshee that was kidnapping young women. He remembers one young girl, probably about 14, who was sacrificed by her parents to make the banshee leave the town alone before Geralt was able to intervene and dispatch the creature.

“I’ve seen some awful things,” he tells the bard, who seems less interested in the story than Geralt hoped he would be. “Witchers do. But that was the cruelest-the most _inhuman_ thing I’ve ever come across. I couldn’t understand how they could do it.” Jaskier looks into the fire, unseeing.

“All parents are cruel,” he says bitterly. “Some of them just hide it better.” Geralt stares at him. This isn’t Jaskier’s usual hyperbolic poetry, there’s _experience_ behind those words. Geralt can’t think of what to say. On the one hand, he wants to ask how he knows that, wants to encourage Jaskier to open up to him. It is at least a partly selfish wish; he longs to know the bard more intimately than anyone else, wants to know every detail of his life. On the other hand, he’s no stranger to the scars bad parenting can leave on a person. He doesn’t want to make Jaskier recount something that could be painful for him. As usual, he says the wrong thing.

“You don’t really think that, do you?” It’s Jaskier’s turn to stare.

“Your naivety astonishes me, Geralt,” he scoffs. “You’re – what, 90? 95? And you still haven’t worked out that it’s not the kikimoras and the nekkers that need hunting, it’s the humans! The world is cruel, witcher dear. Parents are the cruelest of all, for they confer the curse of life on unwilling recipients and then do all they can to make it as miserable as possible. You of all people ought to know that, yours were the worst of all, giving you up to be a witcher!” Geralt blinks. The look on his friend’s face doesn’t belong there; it’s bitter and angry and hurt, and the witcher wants to lean across and kiss it away. Jaskier leaps to his feet, quivering with a rage that seems disproportional to the topic of conversation. Or at least it would, to someone else. But Geralt can see that in his attempt to navigate the issue with subtlety, he’s put his foot through the proverbial hornets’ nest. He reaches out a placating hand. If it had been anyone else, that last part would have ended up in an all-out brawl, but Jaskier is in _agony,_ he can see it in his face, and he knows that under ordinary circumstances he would never have said anything so unkind. The bard’s rage turns to terror as he misinterprets the gesture.

“Oh, gods,” he whimpers, backing away. “Geralt, I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-I didn’t mean, _please_ – I-I’ll just-I’ve got to...” And then he turns and stumbles away into the undergrowth. Geralt can’t move. Can’t speak. _He thought I was going to hurt him,_ he thinks, feeling sick. Jaskier, his most trusted friend, his _beloved,_ thought that Geralt was going to hurt him for saying something in anger. _But what was he supposed to think?_ Asks the nasty voice in his head. _You’ve always hurt him before. You’ve never really touched him except to hurt him, have you?_ Geralt lurches to his feet. He’s got to find him, got to talk to him. He can’t see in the dark, and he gets tired so easily, and he’s so _fragile._ Anything could happen to him, out there in the woods. He snatches his sword from where it’s lying on the ground, and runs out into the trees, calling for his friend.

*

Jaskier hasn’t gone far. Geralt finds him about ten frantic minutes later, curled up on the ground next to a puddle of vomit, arms over his head, rocking backwards and forwards, sobbing. He slows to a walk, knees almost buckling with relief. He crouches beside him. And thinks for a moment. This needs to be handled delicately. Geralt is not terribly good at delicate, but he’ll try anything for Jaskier.

“Jaskier,” he calls softly. The bard curls in on himself with a moan. “Jaskier, it’s only me. I-I’m not going to hurt you, I promise. I’m not even angry. Will you come with me now? We need to get you cleaned up.” Jaskier quiets, shuddering, but doesn’t unroll himself from the ball he’s curled up in. Geralt sits back on his heels. He remembers the last episode Jaskier had like this, remembers how Jaskier couldn’t really hear him, or speak. He leans close to his ear again.

“I’m going to pick you up now,” he says gently. Properly gently, this time, not growling. “I hope that’s ok.” Jaskier doesn’t reply. Geralt gently puts his arms underneath the stiff, quivering body, and scoops it up against his chest. “There we go,” he says, more to say something than because he thinks he’s going to get a response. “We’ll go and get you something to drink, hm?” He murmurs to Jaskier all the way back to their dying campfire. Roach briefly looks up from some weeds she’s been chewing to give him a look that says _so you’re back, are you? Great blundering oaf._ Geralt is inclined to agree with her. He puts Jaskier down in a nest of blankets, and sits beside him, gathering him into his lap. This isn’t how he imagined having Jaskier in his lap for the first time, but this is important. After about half an hour, his rigid muscles start to relax, and he looks up blearily, just like last time.

“Geralt?” he says uncertainly. Geralt hums.

“Yeah, I’m here.” Jaskier doesn’t say anything. Geralt doesn’t either, just holds and rocks him gently. When the bard starts to snuffle and fidget, he loosens his hold. “You should drink some water,” he tells him. “You were sick,” he adds, helpfully. Jaskier gives him a look like a hunted animal and makes to climb out of his lap. Geralt wants to cling to him, but even he can tell that’s a terrible idea. They sit in silence while Jaskier drinks his water.

“Geralt,” he whispers eventually. “I-I’m sorry. I didn’t-about your parents, I mean, that was-”

“It’s alright,” Geralt interrupts, allowing himself a fond chuckle. Sweet, silly bard, as if his own wellbeing isn’t the most important thing! “Like I said, I’m not angry. And I will never, ever hurt you. Not like that. You know that, right?” Jaskier looks at him, genuinely confused.

“I-but,” he begins, but trails off. Like he doesn’t know what to say. Geralt takes a deep breath. If his friend can’t find words to describe how he feels, then Geralt needs to step up. He can do that, for Jaskier.

“I think,” he begins carefully, “I think we might need to talk about some things.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier finally act like grown-ups and talk about their feelings, their past, and the future of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a long 'un. Jaskier's POV again, since we've just had two chapters of Geralt. This one is a pretty good mix of angst and fluff (if I do say so myself) and was probably my favourite to write so far.   
> Content warnings: mentions of past verbal abuse, and Jaskier talks about his depression and anxiety. Brief mention of self-harm. There's also a lot of self-loathing - I absolutely promise that Geralt is going to at least try and do something about that, in his clumsy witcher way. Let me know if you think there's anything else I need to put as a tw.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for all your lovely comments! Makes my entire life to know that people are reading this thing that I've written, and are enjoying it!

Geralt looks more uncomfortable than Jaskier has ever seen him. He’s fidgeting with the pommel of his sword, not looking at him, nibbling at his bottom lip. Jaskier trembles at the sight of him. _This is it,_ he thinks miserably. _This is the moment where he tells you he’s had enough, that he’s leaving you._ It had all been going so well! He promised, all those weeks ago, not to leave. Asking him to stay was the hardest thing Jaskier had ever done, but he did it, and he promised, and everything has been going fine. If Jaskier wasn’t so _fucking weak,_ everything would still be fine, they would just be having a nice dinner, Geralt would tell him about his adventures, and Jaskier could make himself write some songs about them, and everything would be good and normal. His last few weeks travelling with Geralt, and he’s just gone and spoiled it. He feels reality spinning away from him again.

“Hey, no, it’s ok!” Geralt says, seeing his distress. He reaches out a hand, draws it back. “ _Fuck_ ,” he mutters. Jaskier would laugh, usually, but he’s so _tired._ Geralt starts again.

“It’s-I’m not. Hmm. I have some things I…want to ask you. I don’t think I’m going to do it right. I’m not…good, with words. Can you be patient with me?” Jaskier stares at him, astonished. Him, be patient with _Geralt?_ A shade of uncertainty colours his panic, a sliver of shiny hope in the darkness of his despair. Maybe…maybe Geralt isn’t leaving him, yet. Maybe he just…wants to warn Jaskier, ahead of time. Being considerate of his feelings. Geralt smiles hopefully, and Jaskier’s weak defences crumble, as they always do. He swallows thickly.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely. Geralt beams, and Jaskier’s inside turn to mush. Now that he feels a bit calmer, he allows himself to properly look at Geralt, drinking in the sight of him. He looks beautiful; the firelight makes his hair shine like spun silver, and his eyes are warm as honey. Jaskier wants to spend the rest of his life drowning in those eyes. He looks worried, and even in his sadness, Jaskier loves him for that, for not taking pleasure in hurting him. Geralt would never hurt him, not on purpose. He knows that, really. Geralt takes a deep breath.

“Ok, so…” Geralt begins. “I wanted to ask about…hmm. This is harder than I thought it would be.” The witcher frowns, and Jaskier can’t suppress a weak giggle. He’s too old to giggle, really, but Geralt looks adorable with that little crease between his eyebrows. The sound seems to settle him, and he smiles uncertainly. “You’re not…happy,” he says, carefully. “Why?” Jaskier blinks at him mutely. He begins to think that Geralt is being deliberately cruel, making him say it out loud, but maybe he’s just so emotionally unintelligent that he doesn’t realise. He feels his eyes sting with tears, and fights the urge to run away again. He’s a middle-aged man, for fuck’s sake. He should be able to handle grown-up conversations. He steels himself, feeling the already-familiar pain settle in the centre of his chest with a dull, hollow throb.

“You-you’re saying goodbye,” he says quietly. Geralt blinks at him.

“You-I-what?”

“That day…the other week. After-after Yennefer, you said-and you meant it. And now you’re…you’re taking me to Cidaris, to say goodbye. Do it properly. Because you’re….kind. And then you’ll go away again. And I won’t….see you, anymore. And I’m sad, because…because I didn’t realise. How much you h-how much you didn’t want me around. And now I’m with you, but you don’t want me to be, and that doesn’t…feel…good.” Geralt blinks again. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“Fucking hell,” he says finally, face creased with unhappiness. Jaskier’s shoulders pull inwards. Geralt’s breathing heavily, like he does when he’s going to shout and Jaskier is determined that he’s going to stay present, going to stay _here_ , even though the black fog has spilled over from his mind into his vision, clouding it. If this is the last time he sees Geralt, he’s got to make every second count. And then Geralt does something that Jaskier doesn’t expect. He falls to his knees in front of him, and takes his face very gently between his hands, to make him look at him. Jaskier goes hot all over. Then he goes very cold. His mind is filled with black fog; he can’t think, can’t speak. But Geralt is opening his mouth to continue, and Jaskier makes himself listen.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” he says, and he’s never said Jaskier’s name like that before, reverently, like he’s precious. It makes him quake with longing. “Sweet Melitele have mercy, you thought I-you thought. _Fucking hell._ That’s not-I mean I wasn’t-I didn’t. _Fuck._ ” Jaskier trembles. He doesn’t understand what’s happening; this isn’t the reaction he expected. He doesn’t even know what his friend is reacting to. Can’t tell what he’s feeling. Geralt sits back on his heels.

“Come here, come, come,” he says, pulling Jaskier into his lap. Jaskier couldn’t resist him, even if he wanted to. His bones seem to be made out of mashed potato. Geralt cradles Jaskier against his chest like a baby. “I don’t even know where to…where to start. Merciful heaven, Jask. I’m…I’m not saying goodbye. Do you understand me? I’m not trying to…trying to sweeten you up, or-or give you one last hurrah or whatever you thought this was. That’s not what’s happening here.” He sounds so unhappy, so genuinely distraught that Jaskier has to believe him. “I need you to listen to me carefully,” Geralt continues. “I’m not…good, at words. I don’t know how to make you believe me. So I’m asking you. I’m going to talk, and you have to promise that you’ll believe me. Ok?” Jaskier nods frantically against his shoulder. Geralt’s rigid posture relaxes a fraction. “Good. I didn’t – that day, in King Niedamir’s mountains, was a mistake. I was angry. That’s not an excuse, I know that, but I-I wasn’t angry with _you_. I was just…I felt like I was losing control. And I was…afraid. And that made me angry. But what I said, it wasn’t true. None of it. You’re-you’re my best friend, Jaskier. The best thing in my life. And the fact that you believed me when I said-when I got angry...that’s on me. Because that means I haven’t been a good friend, to you. I didn’t tell you how much I appreciate you, how much-how much I _love_ you, when I had the chance. You said, before, you said we could go to the coast. You and me. And…and I let you down. I didn’t say I would go with you because-because I wanted it _so much._ I never wanted anything so badly before. It scared me. And I only realised it after you left. No screw that, I didn't know it until I found you, and thought I was going to lose you _again._ Anyway, so I went to find you. And I didn’t….I didn’t know, before. How much-how badly I hurt you. And I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think you would believe me. I didn’t…you’ve been so unhappy, and I-I didn’t know what to do, and….” He trails off.

Jaskier is trembling so hard in his arms that he feels like he’s going to fall apart. His mind is aflame, with joy, with terror, with self-loathing so strong he wants to be sick. _How could I have thought that about him?_ he thinks. _How could I have thought that Geralt – my Geralt – would be so…so unkind. He’s my friend, my best friend. People say stuff, when they’re angry. You shouldn’t take things so seriously._ This in his father’s voice. He is so mired in disgust at himself that it takes his brain a moment to catch up. _Wait_ ….

“Did you…did you say _love?_ ” he asks tremulously. He climbs carefully out of Geralt’s lap so he can see his face properly. “Did you?” he says again, demanding. Geralt is blushing, actually blushing, and he’s so lovely when he blushes that Jaskier wants to scream.

“Yes,” the witcher whispers. “I love you. I think…maybe for…a long time. And I didn’t-I couldn’t….I didn’t _know._ ” Jaskier sits back on his heels, feeling a sob building in his chest. He doesn’t know what to do, what to think. He’s dreaming, he must be. He can’t decide if it’s a beautiful fantasy or a terrible nightmare. He’s going to shatter, or scream, or both. He feels so much he can’t bear it.

“But-but Yennefer – you made a wish,” he says weakly. Geralt groans and buries his face in his hands.

“I thought I knew what I wanted. I didn’t. And I hurt you _so much,”_ he croaks. Jaskier sits very still, trembling. He thinks he should say something, but he can’t think of anything to say.

“Please say something,” Geralt begs, taking his hands and holding them to his chest. “Anything. Send me away if you must but don’t-please be honest, Jaskier. What do you…what do you want? What can I do that will make you happy? I’ll set myself on fire, if you ask it. I want to make you happy again.” Jaskier’s certain he’s dreaming, then. Absolutely certain. Because Geralt, his Geralt, doesn’t talk this much, not ever. He’s not romantic, he doesn’t do poetry. These beautiful things he’s saying can only come from his own mind. But he promised, earlier, promised to believe him. And if he’s telling the truth, if this is real – Jaskier’s mind can barely comprehend it – then he owes Geralt his words. He’s always been full of words, and now they’re all dried up, lost in the black fog. But he must try. If he’s going to salvage this relationship between them, he’s got to try.

“I-I don’t think you can,” he says softly. Geralt makes a mournful noise, long and low and so saturated with agony it makes Jaskier ache to hear it. “I’m sorry,” Jaskier whispers. “There’s…I think there’s something wrong, with me.” Geralt looks up at him.

“Tell me,” he breathes. It’s a sound so full of longing that It takes Jaskier's breath away. This can’t be happening. Things like this don’t happen, to him. Geralt can’t really want to know of it-of this pain, the background agony of his life, the fear that has hung over him since he was a child. “ _Please,_ ” the witcher continues, taking Jaskier’s hands again. “I want…I wanted to ask, earlier. When I was telling you about the girl. You were…in pain. I want to understand – I want to know- everything. I want to know every part of you,” he says fervently. Jaskier actually swoons. He’s never been so confused in his life. Geralt doesn’t do talking; he doesn’t do _feelings._ Jaskier knows he has them, but he doesn’t _talk_ about them. Nonetheless, he takes a deep breath.

“My parents,” he begins slowly. “My whole family, really. I was-my father was- _is_ \- a viscount. Lettenhove. In Redania,” he adds, avoiding Geralt’s eye. “My parents were not…kind. To me. My father wanted a…what _he_ called a _proper son_. Someone more like you. I liked music. And books. And I was…I mean, I was good with a sword, but I didn’t _enjoy it._ I was such a disappointment to him, him and my mother, and they were…vocal, about it. They sent me away to Oxenfurt as soon as they could. He said…if the family fell into ruin. Then it would be my fault. For not being a…a real man. Everything that went wrong for him was…was my fault. And…it’s hard not to believe it, when you’ve heard it all your life. I had to learn to be-to take it in my stride. I had to read his mood. I had to know what he was going to say before he said it. Hurt less that way,” he adds with a small, bitter laugh. He risks a look up at Geralt and sees the witcher staring at him, hanging on his every word. “But I had a…problem. This…black fog. And it made me tired, and sad. And so _afraid._ It felt like everyone wanted to hurt me. Sometimes I…I hurt myself, I got so tired of waiting for them to do it.”

“The scars,” Geralt whispers to himself, like he’s just worked out the answer to a particularly difficult problem. Jaskier nods silently.

“And then…then I met you. And it was…easy. To like you. To love you.” He says the last bit so softly he’s sure even Geralt’s sensitive hearing won’t catch it, but he looks up again and the witcher is staring at him with desperate longing in his eyes, another breath-taking blush on his cheeks. “And it got…better. And I thought- I mean…I’m good at people. And I thought…the things you said. Banter. And then, there was Yennefer. And it hurt. Because she’s…well. She’s wonderful. She’s beautiful and so smart, and brave, and strong. I mean… _you_ know. But that was…I mean, that was fine. I could…cope. With that. And then….and then….” He can’t go on. Can’t bear to say the next part. Geralt seems to understand, because he touches his cheek softly, and says it for him.

“And then I got angry and said cruel things and you thought…you thought you’d got it wrong. I _made_ you think that.” He sounds like the thought hurts him. Jaskier can’t have that.

“You didn’t know! How could you possibly have known?” Geralt shakes his head, agitatedly getting to his feet.

“I should have asked! I should have…made you feel. Like…Like you could tell me things. We were friends! Are friends. I hope?” He stops pacing and looks at Jaskier. The silence hangs between them, gossamer thin and shining like a spider’s web in the frost. Jaskier can’t bear to look away. He’s sure, if he looks away, Geralt will vanish like a will-o’-the-wisp. He’s absolutely certain that he’s dreaming. It feels so good to articulate what he’s feeling, to relieve the pressure inside him, but it’s not _real._ It can’t possibly be real. Even though he made a promise to Geralt, to believe him, he can’t do it. All the details, the warm, leathery smell of the witcher, the warmth of his hands on Jaskier’s skin, mean nothing. He’s felt those hands before. He’s smelled that smell; he’s been letting it soothe him to sleep for decades. And now Geralt is looking at him, looking at him like Geralt would surely never look at him, such a soft, tender look that Jaskier actually starts to cry. And then Geralt comes to him, eyes shining, cheeks deliciously flushed, and takes Jaskier’s face in his hands again.

“Or maybe…maybe more than friends?” he whispers, voice so full of reverent love and hope that Jaskier feels dazed with it. It’s not real but _sweet merciful heaven_ he _wants_ it to be. And so, he says the only thing that he can say, the word that is on the tip of his tongue, the word that his entire soul aches for him to say.

“Yes,” he breathes hoarsely. “Yes, please.” And then Geralt sighs against his mouth, and kisses him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys manage to continue to be grown-ups for several hours. I'm proud of them!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: I don't think there are any for this chapter, it's relatively fluff,y but let me know if I need to put anything else in the tags.  
> Sorry it's been a minute - this one gave me the most trouble, and I'm still not sure if I got it right. Hope you enjoy this bit of (probably slightly ooc) fluff, and talking about feelings and stuff

Geralt would be the first to admit that he hasn’t spent a great deal of his life kissing. Whores don’t usually allow it, and although he’s taken a not insignificant number of lovers, they are usually more interested in getting into his trousers than kissing him. Even kissing Yennefer was a means to an end; they rarely kissed if one of them wasn’t in the process of coaxing the other into bed. Those kisses were like dreams – real and urgent and enjoyable enough in the moment but ultimatelyshort-lived and not terribly memorable. Kissing Jaskier is not like that. The bard is warm and weak in his arms, and makes soft, desperate noises against his lips. Geralt intends to kiss him often, and well, in future, but he knows there’ll never be another kiss like this – their first kiss. He’s so happy he feels like he might burst; delirious with joy to have this man, this beautiful, tender man, in his arms. For a blissful moment he forgets about all the pain and uncertainty, lost in pleasure.

It takes him longer than it probably should to realise that something is still not quite right. He thought – well, hoped, really – that Jaskier would wind his arms round Geralt’s neck, run his hands through his hair. Geralt’s skin tingles with the longing to be touched, to feel Jaskier’s fingertips upon it. But the bard has gone rigid in his arms, and Geralt now realises that the soft noises he is making sound more distressed than pleased. And there are warm tears on his face. Geralt pulls back, panicked. Has he completely misunderstood? Is he moving too quickly? He scans Jaskier’s face, listens carefully to the sounds his body is making. Geralt can’t read his expression.

“Jaskier?” he asks, warily. “Was that-did you not want-” He trails off as Jaskier reaches out to touch his face. Geralt leans into in in spite of himself. More tears spill out of Jaskier’s eyes.

“This…can’t be real,” he says weakly. There’s so much pain in his voice that Geralt wants to weep.

“What-what do you mean?” he asks carefully. He prepares himself for Jaskier to tell him that his attention is unwanted. ‘More than friends’ can have more than one meaning, after all, what if Geralt got it wrong? Jaskier’s hand starts to tremble against his cheek, and Geralt reaches out to hold him. He can’t help it. Jaskier should never look so unhappy.

“I can’t tell if it’s real,” he whispers. “I _want_ it to be real.” Geralt breathes a sigh of relief. He didn’t kiss Jaskier against his will, then. But what does he mean?

“Jaskier, I-I don’t understand,” he tells him. Jaskier swallows audibly.

“This has to be a dream,” he whimpers, the tremor in his hand working its way out to the rest of him; full-body tremors that feel strong enough to shake him apart. Geralt holds him a little tighter and sits, very carefully, in the nest of blankets from earlier, bringing Jaskier with him to sit in his lap again. He’s starting to realise he has a bit of a…thing, about that. He strokes Jaskier’s hair and thinks. He thinks about everything Jaskier told him, this evening. About his parents. About the black fog. Thinks about the way he said it, voice laden with pain and…something else. He thinks about how easily he believed that Geralt didn’t want him, and how miserable it made him. Geralt is not, on the whole, terribly good at understanding people. He doesn’t usually spend enough time with them to understand them properly. But he knows Jaskier better than he knows almost any other living creature, and he is starting to know himself better, too. He sees that Jaskier doesn’t value himself because no one else has ever valued him. He sees that he himself has been underestimating how deep his beloved’s hurt goes, and how long it will take to heal. It stands to reason, then, that Jaskier cannot comprehend that someone he-someone he _loves_ (even just thinking it makes Geralt’s vision go hazy with pleasure) cares about him enough to keep him around. He feels proud of himself for seeing this. He wonders how to tell Jaskier without distressing him further.

“Jaskier,” he says, finally. The bard sniffs against his chest and then stands up, stretching. Geralt stands up beside him so they can look at each other. “Do you remember the day we met?” Jaskier looks at him blankly. “The tavern in Posada, remember?” the bard nods slowly, confused. “Do you remember what you were wearing?” Jaskier shakes his head. “Because I do. You were wearing a doublet that was a kind of greeny-blue colour, with red slashes on it. I remember thinking that it suited you. Matched your eyes. And the red jacket, the one you were wearing...that day. Do you know where that came from?”

“No,” Jaskier whispers, a strange look on his face.

“No, you don’t, because I got it for you for your birthday…oh, what would it have been, about four years ago? I carried it in my pack for nearly six weeks, all the way from Toussaint, because you weren’t in Novigrad where you said you were going to be. Got chased out by a jealous wife, you remember?” Jaskier chuckles wetly.

“Yeah, I do. Why-why are you telling me this?” he asks quietly. Geralt takes a deep breath.

“Because if this were a dream, I wouldn’t be telling you. I wouldn’t be able to. If this were a dream, I couldn’t know anything _you_ didn’t know. But I do. So I’m not-I mean, this isn’t a dream. It’s really happening. And I want to know if you want it to….to keep happening. Like this. Us. Together.” Geralt wants to bottle the look on Jaskier’s face when he says that, wants to put it in a jar and carry it around with him. To see such joy on his face – to know that he, Geralt the witcher, put it there – is dizzying. He hadn’t known before, that such happiness could exist. Jaskier brushes the tears from his eyes and sits up a bit straighter.

“Thank you,” he says, still quiet. Geralt smiles at him. He thinks he might never stop smiling.

“May I kiss you again?” he asks, shyly. Jaskier beams.

“You may,” he says, softly. Geralt puts his fingers under Jaskier’s chin, gently lifting his face. He leans down and gently butts their noses together, and looks into his eyes, waiting. He wants Jaskier to do it, this time. He needs to know that he really wants it. For a heart-stopping moment, nothing happens. Then Jaskier lets out a choking sob and surges forward to kiss him. Geralt’s eyelids flutter closed. There is no bliss in the world like the bliss of being kissed by Jaskier, of kissing this man he loves more than his own life and knowing that he is loved in return. If their first kiss was sweet, this one is _paradise_. Jaskier buries his hands in Geralt’s hair, pulling him close. He gives a gentle, experimental tug and then makes a satisfied sound when he feels Geralt’s knees weaken. Geralt holds the bard’s waist, gently lifting his chemise, a blissful sigh escaping him when his fingers find bare skin. He promises himself he won’t go any further than this, tonight. Perhaps not for a while. He doesn’t think Jaskier is with it enough to want it, never mind fully agree to it. He knows he ought to be thinking only of how sweet it is to hold his love in his arms, but he can’t help thinking about all the things that Jaskier has said ‘yes’ to over the last few weeks. Little things, usually, but Geralt isn’t confident Jaskier would tell him ‘no’ if he didn’t feel ready. Two months ago, the idea of Jaskier not being up for taking someone to bed would have been laughable, but he knows better now.

After what could be minutes, or hours, or possibly several heavenly days, they break apart. Jaskier is panting slightly, and Geralt finds himself breathless at the sight of him. His love is _radiant_ with joy. His eyes are shining, his cheeks are flushed, his smile is wider than Geralt’s ever seen it. Nothing has ever given him more pleasure than knowing that _he_ did that. Jaskier keeps his arms looped around Geralt’s neck.

“I love you.” He says it like he can’t help it. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” Geralt quivers. He’s not sure he’ll ever get tired of hearing it.

“I love you,” he replies breathlessly, lifting the bard in his arms and spinning him. Jaskier’s answering laugh is the best sound he’s ever heard.

*

Half an hour, and what feels like hundreds of delicious kisses later, Geralt is lying with his head in Jaskier’s lap, practically purring while the bard runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair.

“I want you to know,” he begins, fingers stilling in Geralt’s hair. Geralt wants to whine when he takes his hands away, but something in Jaskier’s tone suggests this would be a mistake.

“Know what?” he asks.

“This-you-it’s…it’s wonderful. It’s…I can’t even-it’s more than I ever dared dream of. But I can’t…I can’t promise that I will always be…happy. Even…even before…all this. I wasn’t happy all the time. I can’t promise that I won’t have days like….like the other week, when I couldn’t get up. When I told you to leave me.” The way he says it makes Geralt sit up. Jaskier turns his face away.

“Look at me, Jaskier,” Geralt says gently, leaning across to take Jaskier’s face in his hands. “I’m not…hm. I’m under no illusion that this…whatever it is that you have. Is going to magically go away because I started treating you the way you deserve.” Jaskier tries to turn his head away, looking embarrassed. “No, I mean it,” Geralt says firmly. “And I won’t pretend that I…that you, being so unhappy, has been easy. And I know it won’t always be. But…you’re worth it,” he finishes shyly. He’s not given to romanticism, but he’s known his love long enough to know that it’s something that he expects from his lovers. And Geralt intends to be Jaskier’s lover for a long, long time. The bard blushes. _Melitele have mercy,_ Geralt thinks dizzily, _it should be a crime to blush so beautifully._ He kisses Jaskier again, because he wants to, because he _can._ Jaskier makes a pleased noise and burrows against Geralt’s chest, pressing his face into the crook of the witcher’s neck. Geralt feels goosebumps erupt along his neck. Jaskier makes an interested noise.

“You’re sensitive there, aren’t you?” He teases. Geralt blushes.

“Feels good when you touch me,” he mumbles. It’s true; every inch of his skin feels like it’s _begging_ for Jaskier’s touch. He thinks when the day comes for him to take his beloved to bed (and isn’t _that_ a heady thought) he might get down on his knees and do just that. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to help himself. Jaskier wriggles in his lap.

“I _love_ to touch you,” he whispers. “And I love it when you touch me. ‘There’s no heaven but that I find at your fingertips’.” Geralt blinks.

“That one… that poem, the romantic one…you wrote that about…about…”

“Yes,” Jaskier says heavily. “Geralt, they-they’ve _all_ been about you.”

“Oh,” Geralt replies in a small voice. He doesn’t…know what to say to that. Jaskier’s romantic poetry has been making people across the continent swoon for decades. And it was all for _him._ “I’ve never…done anything like that. For you.” Jaskier chuckles.

“I never expected you to, my love,” he says gently. Geralt’s insides fizz with joy.

“Your love,” he breathes. “ _Yours._ ”

“Yes,” Jaskier says decidedly. It’s the most like himself he’s sounded for weeks. “Mine. I claim you. _THIS IS MY WITCHER!”_ he suddenly yells, laughing with delight. Geralt feels like he could melt into a puddle. He feels like he could float away. He feels overcome with the urge to weep and buries his face in Jaskier’s chest to hide the tears welling in his eyes. No one has ever claimed him before. Jaskier holds him tight.

“I want to…call you things,” he says after a few minutes of contented silence. Geralt raises his head.

“Like…what?”

“Like….my love. Darling. _Beloved_.” Even the anticipation of being called such things makes him tremble. “How would you…feel about that?”

“ _Please,_ ” Geralt breathes, surging up to kiss him. “ _Please._ ” Jaskier chuckles.

“Alright then.”

“I don’t think I can…I don’t know if I will…”

“I know,” Jaskier soothes him. “Like I said, I don’t expect you to. D’you know, you’ve been more talkative tonight than I think I’ve ever seen you; I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to start feeling uncomfortable.” Geralt hides his face against Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier laughs again. Geralt wants to live in that sound. “Oh, don’t hide from me, darling!” the bard coos. Geralt goes weak in his arms. For a moment there is silence again. Geralt still feels a tension in Jaskier, though. His heart is beating hard enough even for someone without Geralt’s sensitive ears to hear.

“Geralt, are we still…did you mean it?” he asks, voice tight with anxiety. “About staying with me? You won’t change your mind in the morning? And we’re…we’re still going to Cidaris?” Geralt raises his head from his Jaskier’s chest and looks him in the eye.

“I did. I won’t. We are,” he assures him. Jaskier relaxes a bit, but still doesn’t look convinced. Geralt leans over so their foreheads are resting together. “I am never going to leave you. I will never get tired of you. If I have to tell you that I love you a hundred times a day, that’s what I’ll do.” The moment hangs between them, fragile as a flower.

Jaskier looks at him, this man who he’s followed across continents, this man who he would walk into hell for with only mild complaining. And for the first time in weeks, he believes him.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bonus fluff - Geralt and Jaskier enjoy their time together by the sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I leave you with some pure, unadulterated fluff, feat. Bakery Wives. Thank you so much to everyone for reading, and leaving kudos and comments for me - this is really my first time properly contributing to a fandom, and also only the second time I've ever put anything I've written somewhere where someone who is not me can see it. All your kindness has made the process much less anxiety-inducing than it might have been - thank you thank you thank you!!! xxxx

Rayla looks out the window of her little bakery on the sea front, not quite believing what she sees. A white-haired witcher is trying to coax a younger man, almost of a height with him, into the sea.

“No, Geralt!” the other man shrieks, laughing. “I can’t swim!” The witcher called Geralt scoops the other man up into his arms.

“Who said anything about swimming, little bard?” he booms. Rayla can see the bard’s face split with helpless laughter as the witcher carries him into the waves. Once they’re in the sea, Geralt lays the smaller man in the water, standing with his back to the sea and holding him up. His face shines with adoration. Rayla’s wife comes up behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist and kissing her cheek.

“Who’s that?” she asks, sleepily.

“A witcher and his bard,” Rayla says softly.

“That sounds romantic,” he wife smiles.

“Mmm,” says Rayla, pulling her wife into her arms to give her a proper kiss. “Certainly looks like it.”

*

Much later, after a good deal more shrieking, and some other noises which made the prudish innkeeper blush, the witcher and his bard are lying in bed. Jaskier is watching Geralt intently, like he's never going to see him again.

“You making a study of me, little bard?” Geralt asks. Jaskier smiles.

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve been studying you for a long time,” he says. He looks nervous, like he’s expecting Geralt to turn him away for saying things like that. Geralt thinks he’s going to react like that for a long time.

“How long?” he asks, curiously. Jaskier blushes again, so Geralt has to kiss him. Jaskier melts against him, and Geralt thinks – not for the first time this evening – that no one has ever felt so good in his arms before. When they break apart, Jaskier looks embarrassed. Geralt noses against his hair.

“Tell me,” he insists. Jaskier squirms.

“I don’t-I’m embarrassed,” he says uncomfortably.

“Why?”

“Because it’s….it’s a really long time. And you always say it’s stupid, how quickly I fall in love, and-”

“No,” Geralt interrupts him. “It’s not stupid. I never thought it was stupid. I was…jealous. Of you, to begin with. You always-hmm. It seems like you always see the good in people, to fall in love so easily. And then, I think…I was jealous of other people. Because you loved them.”

“Oh, _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier sighs, pressing against him. Geralt wants him to say his name like that for the rest of his life. “You’re actually quite romantic, aren’t you?” Geralt shrugs.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Jaskier sighs uncomfortably. Geralt suddenly thinks that this might be one of those times when he needs to stop pushing. He needs to be careful of Jaskier’s boundaries if he never sets them for himself. “It’s-you don’t have to tell me,” he says. “I just…would love to know.” Jaskier smiles.

“Well, in that case…if you must know, it was after Filavandrel and the elves let us go, d’you remember? And I started singing that song, Toss a Coin to Your Witcher?” Geralt nods mutely, overwhelmed. “And you said ‘where’s your newfound respect’ and you-you meant it. You really, genuinely respected those elves, and were annoyed because you thought I didn’t. Even though they tied you up, and insulted you, you still-you still wanted me to respect them.” Geralt looks at him. That _was_ a long time ago. Over 20 years. Jaskier has loved him for his entire adult life. Jaskier loved him when he told him that his singing sounded like a pie with no filling. Jaskier loved him all the times he denied they were even friends, because _witchers don’t have friends._ Jaskier loved him every time Geralt forgot about him because Yennefer had taken him to bed. He used to think the bard was shallow but if he could love someone like Geralt, through all the pain Geralt’s caused him…He lets out a long breath.

“Say something,” Jaskier says anxiously.

“I don’t…think I deserve it,” Geralt says slowly. Jaskier looks up, puzzled. “You’ve loved me for _so long,_ Jaskier,” he continues. “And I was…I’ve been so unkind to you. I mean, all the times I left you somewhere when Yennefer…when she and I….” Jaskier goes stiff in his arms. _Ah._

“Yeah, well,” he croaks. “I just always thought…if it had been you. I mean, if you were me, and Yennefer was you….no. I mean, if I had a friend who followed me around when I didn’t want him there, and I had to choose between him and you…well. There just isn’t any competition. You…love her.” Geralt has to admit he was hoping to avoid this conversation, but he supposes in bed, after some very enthusiastic lovemaking is one of the less awful places to have it.

“I don’t,” he corrects. “I suppose I did…once. Maybe I do still, but not…it’s not the same, the way I feel about her. It’s…she’s like family. To me. I hadn’t ever…hmm. What I’m trying to say is, I love Yennefer like family. But I didn’t know what that felt like, so I thought I must…want to be with her?” Jaskier starts to laugh gently, and Geralt blushes.

“I think…I think I know what you mean. Do you-do you mean you don’t… feel about her the way you feel about…about me?” he sounds genuinely confused. Geralt takes his face in his hands.

“Exactly. Like you said before. No competition.”

“But she’s…I mean, Yennefer, she’s… _brilliant,_ ” Jaskier says, astonished.

“She is,” Geralt agrees comfortably, “but she’s not _you_. We’re not…good for each other, like that. Like I said. Family.” Jaskier looks dumbfounded. “I don’t want you to worry,” Geralt continues. “I’m not…you’re not like a…a placeholder, for her. I love you because…because you’re _you_. I’m not going to leave you behind again,” he finishes vehemently. “Not ever.” Jaskier looks at him for a long, long time.

“I think,” he says slowly, “I think I believe you.” It’s the first time he’s said as much out loud. Geralt kisses him, still astonished that he _can_.

“I think that’s a good start,” he says with a smile.


End file.
